


You Don't Know My Name

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Fic, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-27
Updated: 2010-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter takes the phone upstairs and changes into jeans and a sweater. If he's doing this, he can't be Agent Peter Burke.</p><p>Heartache on a plate(<sup>TM</sup>Sage) set during 1.07 Free Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Know My Name

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sage for beta. &lt;3

The rest of the evening, the phone Neal gave him is a weight in the room—at first in his pocket, heavy against his thigh, and then in the center of the dining table. It draws Peter's eye all through dinner, through Elizabeth's description of her day, of Yvonne's migraine and the ensuing dramas, her inquiries into the hunt for Neal and what might come next. Her attempt to discuss their plans for the weekend. "I thought maybe we could head out of town, if you've cleared Neal's name by then."

When Peter fails to answer, she smiles, the corners of her mouth tucking down in sympathy, and reaches out to touch the phone. "He's not in your care right now."

It's not a reproof—it's permission. Peter's gaze flicks up to meet hers, and he's shocked to see that she understands everything. They haven't talked about it; he should've known they didn't need to. Shame makes him flush. "I never meant for it—" To happen. To get so out of hand.

She's the one who brought Neal into their home this evening, knowing how he feels.

"You're a good man." She covers his hand, puts Neal's phone into it. "Just—if you want to do this, I have two conditions. One, I get you for a whole weekend; no work commitments, no stakeouts, no waking up at three in the morning when you think of some lead you have to follow up on. We go somewhere nice."

Peter nods, taken aback as much by his own calm response as by hers.

El holds his gaze. "And two, you tell me everything. _Everything._ I need it to be something we share, not something that excludes me."

It's a deal he's more than happy to make. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

She rolls her eyes, impatient with his self-deprecation. "I need to get some work done this evening anyway." She squeezes his hand. "Be careful. Give Neal my love."

Peter takes the phone upstairs and changes into jeans and a sweater. If he's doing this, he can't be Agent Peter Burke. He sits on the end of his and El's bed and turns the phone over in his hand, so nervous he leaves sweaty fingerprints on its plastic surface. In ten years of marriage he's never once come close to this.

And the whole idea of it is dangerous and short-sighted and unbelievably messed up, but he can't put down the damned phone. He swallows hard, sighs and flips it open. It only takes a second to figure out the interface. He sends a text: _10pm W 20th St 7th Ave?_

Then he finds sneakers and an old brown leather jacket he hasn't worn in over six years. He empties out the pockets. Can't take ID, not even keys. This has to be completely untraceable. He folds a hundred dollars in tens and twenties and slides the money into the back pocket of his jeans.

The phone chirps, and he almost drops it on the floor. The text says: _Is this what I think it is?_ Peter doesn't reply. Neal will be there. If he's not, or if he decides to stay hidden, then—well, then it wasn't meant to be. Maybe Peter's been reading him wrong. He doesn't think so.

Peter goes downstairs, stands close behind Elizabeth with his hands on her shoulders and kisses the top of her head, breathing in the warm comforting scent of sanity and home. "He called me a second ago," she says. "I told him it's okay."

Peter's pulse jumps. "I love you," he tells El. Then he makes a discreet exit out the back, avoiding the surveillance team out front.

He walks five blocks to the subway station he and El never use because it's right below a less-than-reputable bar and half the time it smells like something's died down there. He buys his MetroCard with cash. He waits fifteen minutes for a train.

He nearly turns around and heads home half a dozen times in those fifteen minutes, but once he's on the train, he makes himself stop thinking. Stations flash by. People get on and off. A girl with tight beaded braids sits across from him, singing under her breath and unraveling her green knitted scarf, stitch by stitch, row by row.

Peter stops off at a Duane Reade, but he's still nearly twenty minutes early. West 20th is busy, people moving in clusters toward restaurants and bars. There's scaffolding outside the Merci Market, scaffolding that's been there for years. In deep winter, after rain or any significant snowfall, the wooden planks drip relentlessly on people as they pass underneath. But although there's a nip in the air now, it's a dry cold, and while the scaffolding would provide good visual cover, that's not what Peter needs. He stands on the corner diagonally opposite instead, outside the Lyons Wier Gallery, sticks his hands in his pockets and pretends to window shop. There's no point hiding and no point looking for Neal. He'll turn up if and when he's ready

Sure enough, thirty seconds later, Neal's smooth laughing tones say, "I never would have picked you for diamante sculptures."

Peter turns to him, and says slowly and deliberately, "Do I know you?"

Neal doesn't miss a beat. "Do you want to?"

He's wearing a long black coat and the inevitable fedora. He's freshly shaven and his hair is curling damply, as if he only just showered, somewhere nearby.

He takes in Peter's clothes, his lazy gaze sweeping him from head to foot, and then steps closer. "Nick," he says, and holds out his hand. He doesn't ask _Are you sure?_ or point out the risk. Peter is immeasurably grateful for this—the thought of second guessing himself now makes his stomach churn.

He takes Neal's hand and the contact shivers through him, so disconcerting that he forgets to let go. They've touched a hundred times before—they touch all the time—but it's never been like this. Never with intent. Peter doesn't give a fake name. He can't play this lightly like Neal can. His feelings are a thundercloud, threatening stormy weather—deluge, devastation.

Maybe Neal sees that. For a second, his smile falters and hunger shows through. "Come on." He claps Peter on the shoulder and guides him down the street toward a youth hostel—innocuous, anonymous, clean enough. Great minds think alike.

In the reception area, Peter hangs back, tries to give Neal a handful of cash but Neal pushes it away and goes to get them a room on his own dime. They're working together on this, no need for words. Neal ushers Peter up two flights of stairs, past the communal bathroom and into their small private room and closes the door behind them.

The room is shabby. Neal deserves better and Peter can't give it to him. This is all they're going to get, maybe ever. And that hurts, but Neal's a warm presence at his back, and then he rests his head against Peter's shoulder, leans in. Peter closes his eyes and breathes, hand clenched around the phone in his jacket pocket, blood thrumming in his veins.

There's no tracker in the room, no FBI badge. They are two men on equal terms, both with everything to lose. Peter, fighting a lightning strike of fear, takes refuge in irascibility. "You think we could at least take our coats off?"

But he doesn't follow through on it. He turns and hauls Neal close, coat and all, and presses his lips to Neal's jaw, his ear and finally his mouth. It's clumsy for a moment, like missing a step. Then they steady and smooth out, and Neal is pressed up against him, hands tight on his waist, pulling him close, making Peter's body dissolve into a mess of desire. Neal is shameless; he cants his hips forward, already turned on, hiding nothing, and he tastes of toothpaste—a wholesome contradiction. Peter wonders how long he's wanted this, how much he'd take if he was allowed, if they didn't have laws and obligations and prior commitments. Neal's mouth is hot and sweet, and Peter could kiss him forever, just like this, in the fragile intersection between _impossibility_ and _necessity_.

But Neal's hands travel up Peter's sides and push his coat off his shoulders, and then angle him through a quarter turn so there's a wall at Peter's back, the light switch digging into his shoulder. Then Neal falls away. Peter blinks his eyes open, startled, before he registers that Neal's on his knees. Before he realizes that Neal's unfastening Peter's jeans.

Neal looks up at him, eyes dark and serious, lips parted. "Are you clean?"

Kneejerk indignation rises: does Neal think he makes a habit of this? But it was Peter's idea to feign anonymity, and Neal's fastidious attention to detail is his hallmark, in his roles as well as his forgeries. Peter nods and quirks his head. "You?"

Which doesn't even scratch the surface of the things he wants to ask, but anything more would slam them right back into their working dynamic, and anyway, the sight of Neal down there is making it hard to process thoughts, let alone produce coherent words.

"Yeah," says Neal, and pulls Peter's cock out of his plain navy cotton underwear and starts sucking him without ceremony.

Peter gasps, half collapses against the wall, banging his head back, and then Neal does something that makes one of Peter's knees buckle so he nearly falls and has to steady himself against the door. "Jesus Christ!"

Neal raises his eyebrows and there are crinkles around his eyes, but he doesn't stop until Peter grabs him by his coat and hauls him back to his feet. At which point Neal looks downright offended.

"There's a bed right over there," says Peter, as if he's pleading for an extravagant romantic gesture rather than what he assumes most people would take for granted. He ignores the fact that his cock's still sticking out, wet with Neal's saliva, and that his jeans are loose around his thighs. He puts his hands on Neal's face and kisses him, trying to articulate without words what this means to him.

If only Neal could read him the way El does, but they don't have ten years' intimate history; they know each other, and they can both read people, but Neal's not psychic.

Only maybe he is. When he pulls back and regards Peter, his expression is sober and tender, and his half-smile is maybe the saddest thing Peter's ever seen, calling forth a whole new set of misgivings. Is this fair? Is it, ultimately, just going to make them all miserable?

But Neal's smile deepens with amusement, erasing everything else. "I can hear your brain whirring. Stop thinking."

He guides Peter over to the bed and, holding eye contact, takes off his coat, unbuttons his shirt.

Peter swallows hard and strips his t-shirt over his head, forcing himself to follow Neal's lead on this, because Neal is giving him exactly what he wants, even if Peter's too impatient to properly appreciate it. They strip all the way, both turned on and openly eyeing the other, and god, Neal's beautiful. If Peter had ever had any doubt that his physique might not match his face, it's dispelled now. Neal's lean and muscled and his skin is smooth and warm-looking. He's almost too perfect, but Peter doesn't have time to be intimidated, because Neal's pulling back the covers, sliding between the coarse hostel sheets and inviting him to follow.

Peter swallows around the lump in his throat and accepts the invitation, hands shaking, head full of static. The shock of Neal's body against his—the rasp of their legs, the unbearably erotic brush of their cocks, the press of their chests, the tight smoothness of Neal's ass and his back under Peter's greedy hands; the fact of Neal's arms twining around Peter, drawing him close—all of it is overwhelming, and Peter groans and starts thrusting against Neal's hip, helpless to stop.

"Oh, fuck. _Peter_," breathes Neal. It sounds like an obscene prayer.

Peter can't begrudge him his name. He gathers him close, and they twist and writhe together, without any organizing principle, without style or grace. Peter chases desire, feels it burn through him everywhere they touch. He can sense the tension coiling in Neal's body—making him arch into Peter, making him groan and mouth Peter's neck, kiss him messily. Peter glories in it. They can have this.

The list of things they can't have is too long to enumerate, but they can have this.

Neal begins to shudder. Peter assumes he's coming and hangs on, wanting nothing more than to hold him through it, to be right there with him. But Neal pushes him away a few inches, slithers a hand down Peter's sweaty chest and closes it around Peter's cock.

"Please," says Neal, roughly, and Peter doesn't know if he's asking permission or asking for Peter to reciprocate, but either way, there's no chance Peter will refuse. He mirrors the action, taking Neal's thick, heavy erection in his hand, and they stroke each other in time, first slowly, then speeding up to a mad blurring rush of impatience and need.

Peter comes first, unable to hold off a second longer. His eyes fall shut, despite himself, and he groans low against Neal's cheek as pleasure rushes through him, almost more than he can bear, sharply aware that Neal is the one he's lying with, that it's Neal's hand that brought him release. It takes him a few minutes to recover. He catches his breath, and then tightens his grasp on Neal and strokes again, curls his free arm around Neal's neck. They kiss frantically until Neal comes in short hot spurts on Peter's belly.

Afterwards, they clean up with a corner of the sheet, and then lie together, their kisses slow and lingering now, making the most of every moment. Peter brushes Neal's hair from his forehead and mouths Neal's nameagainst his temple, the lack of sound his only concession to circumstance. Then he runs his hand over Neal's hip and hitches his leg up so he can trace his fingers over Neal's bare ankle.

"Don't." Neal grabs his wrist. "Don't."

"Sorry." Peter's never been good at undercover; he would have made a lousy conman. He hopes Neal will forgive the slip, but it's too late—Neal's already swinging his legs out of the bed and reaching for his clothes.

Peter watches, feels the distance stretch between them, growing exponentially until Neal is too far away to touch. Until Peter's nakedness is awkward.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "That was stupid."

Neal turns to face him, jaw set but not in anger. It's that same sadness. Peter aches, reaches out and drags him close, thrown by how right it feels to comfort him, how Peter's body already knows to relax when Neal is in his arms. How Neal sags against him, willing to trust again just like that.

It's going to be hell unlearning this, adjusting back to their authorized working relationship—and that's assuming Peter can clear Neal's name and keep him out of jail. Which he will. He has to.

"I need to get going," says Neal into Peter's shoulder. "Give my love to Elizabeth."

So, the charade is over. Peter shuts his eyes and breathes Neal in, the smell of sex and musk and soap, and wishes desperately that he could bring him home for real. Openly. Or at the very least protect him from Fowler and OPR and whoever else is out to get him—there's bound to be someone.

"Really," Neal says. "Someone's waiting for me."

It might be an excuse, but Peter can't risk it, can't endanger Neal further. "We shouldn't leave together."

"No," Neal agrees. "You go first."

Peter wants to protest, but he has to trust Neal to know what he's doing. He gets dressed quickly, kisses Neal one more time, swallows all the words crowding on his tongue, and leaves without looking back.

Their time is up.

He spends the subway ride home hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, and he's home before he realizes it, sneaking in the backdoor, finding Elizabeth still at her laptop as if he never left. As if the whole thing were a dream.

But when she sees him, she gets up and comes over at once. "Oh, honey," she says, her hand over her mouth in dismay. He must look like hell, because she wraps her arms around him. "Was it wrong of me to let you go?"

"No." Peter can't say more than that, not yet. He clings to her until the world stops tilting and fracturing. She murmurs nonsense and hugs him tighter and slowly the pieces of his life realign and drift inward again.

Elizabeth looks up at him and cups his cheek. "One day," she says, and then stops.

Peter hopes like hell she means what he thinks she might mean. What he wants her to say. But that's a long way off, even if Neal wants it too, and there are more hurdles than he can count between here and there. Gigantic hurdles. So for now, Peter holds Elizabeth, his beautiful, smart, big-hearted wife, and waits for the words to come, so he can tell her everything.

 

END


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